Itch
by YukiSkye
Summary: It began with a lapse in memory when he tried to recall the name of one of his crewmates.


It started when his thoughts drifted as they oft did nowadays with nothing for him to do but live in his head.

He had been staring at a whorl in one of the planks which had him thinking of whirlpools which had him thinking of that one island his crew visited surrounded by them which had him thinking of that one market stall where…

At that point, he had drawn a long blank as he fished around for the name of the man he knew had a long, sloping nose, a square jaw, and small eyes that squinted whenever he got annoyed; the name of his fellow _crewmember_.

His mind scrambled frantically for a name. It was on the tip of his tongue; he knew it, although he no longer had a tongue.

He tried to remember. He tried so hard that he felt the heat in his face, even though it had long rotted away from white bone, but still he couldn't remember and it seemed the harder he tried to grasp it, the more it eluded him.

The moment he realized he forgot, a hole opened in the pit of his hollow abdomen and even when he had no stomach or heart left for them to drop through, there was somehow a sensation of falling.

He remembered in the end, but the experience awoke something inside him, a frantic panic and a deep fear that had him flipping through every moment he could possibly think of. It left him shaking and insomniac for days as he forced himself to dredge up every last moment with his crew along with their names.

Rotted wood was thankfully a lot softer than fresh wood.

He started on the walls of the former sleeping quarters of his crew where he scratched out every single name of his dead friends.

Rudy.

Jinkel.

Aron.

Even his captain's and Laboon's name; he dared not chance anyone forgotten in the darkness of passing time, including himself. He scratched them all down.

And when he was done with their names, he began scratching out their stories next, bits of musical scores, and even things from his childhood if he could. Anything he could remember, he put down. He found he no longer remembered his birthday or his hometown, but those weren't that important anyway.

He mainly used his fingers and when those got worn to stumps, he used his sword until they slowly healed back.

It wasn't painful, but it was painstaking. He recognized the obsessive madness, but he couldn't stop. Sometimes he cried along with his etched words, wanting to quit but his arms and fingers continued to move on their own as though possessed.

He didn't sleep. He didn't drink. He didn't eat. He sometimes didn't even know if he was human or that he even existed anymore and whenever those doubts came, he'd go back and reread everything he scratched out from the beginning to remind himself that he was because no one who wasn't human could still be so full of heartbreak.

When the words softened around the edges from the passage of time, Brook re-scratched everything until they were readable to him again, but he paid special attention to the list of names of his crew because even though he wasn't sure he was alive anymore, Brook still dreamed.

He dreamed that one day he would be able to prove to himself that the sun wasn't an illusion brought on by the creation of his mind, that this fog-leaden ocean wasn't the whole world, and that the proof of his bonds and adventures was out there somewhere in the form of a whale.

When that day came, he'd put up a grave for all of his friends so that they could see the sky with him, warm and bright.

His dream did eventually come true and he was swept along with a boy in a straw hat who embodied the sky and new friends and new hopes. By then, the entirety of the walls, floors, and even ceilings below deck were covered with his scrawls.

But the habit never really left him and somewhere in the journey from the Florian Triangle to Sabaody Archipelago, he snapped out of a daze to discover that he had scratched out half the list of names and was just beginning on Samuel when Franky's voice interrupted him.

He apologized to the shipwright, of course, who was a bit miffed but mostly concerned as he pointed out Brook's fingers, which had been worn away almost to the middle thanks to the fact that Adam wood wasn't exactly as soft as rotten wood was.

Chopper had been thrown into a tizzy at the state of his phalanges and demanded to know what happened.

"Yohohoho! I apologize, Chopper-san. I was quite careless. It won't happen again," he promised.

Chopper let out a huff and said, "I hope not. Your hands are very important! Please take better care of them!"

His tone lacked any real annoyance. Rather, it was said more out of worry. His hands were very important as a musician, after all, almost as important as Sanji's were for cooking and Brook resolved that he wouldn't worry his new friends like this again.

But every now and then his fingers itched and the longer they itched, the more unsettled and anxious Brook was to _scratch_ , to read, to _remember._

He tried to curb his urge by playing music or having some tea or joining the frivolities of his captain; fingers occupied and attention distracted.

It worked more often than not, but the itch was always at the back of his skull until one day, Robin came up to him with a small smile and presented him with a book enclosed by a beautiful, smooth leather cover and a latch.

"Oh, what is this, Robin-san?" he asked as Robin pressed it into his hands.

"It's a journal for you to write in," she replied and just like that, a light, dawning moment came over him.

Of course. He had the resources now. He no longer had to rely on the only means he had to write back on the dilapidated Rumbar ship. It was almost ridiculous that he didn't think of this sooner.

The bubble of delight burst out in the form of loud laughter because now, he had a means to record everything he had fought so hard to preserve. However, it wasn't just the feeling of joy that he was experiencing. Somewhere in there was relief as well because those fifty years would never go away. He wasn't afraid of being trapped again, suspended from all time, because he was part of a reliable crew he knew he could depend on to pull him back out again as many times as it took, but that fear of forgetting would always linger somewhere in the darker recesses of his mind.

The weight of the blank journal somehow made it easy to breathe again despite the impossibility due to absent lungs, but it was as though he had exhaled the last remnants of that black fog. He didn't know to what extent Robin was aware how much this meant to him, but Brook felt his eye sockets tear up as he looked at her again.

"Thank you, Robin-san."

The itch to remember never left him. It was just now, he had new adventures to write.


End file.
